The Secret Society of Super Villains Golf Outing
by Zari of Anthemoessa
Summary: It was time for a strategy meeting, but with the Society as internally fractured as it was, they would need a more casual venue to come to an agreement. A game of golf on Lex Luthor's world-class course seemed like the perfect setting.
1. A Casual Golf Business Outing

**A quick note: Society leadership and members are based off of the game DC Universe Online. Leadership therefore consists of Lex Luthor, Circe, and the Joker. I know that this may vary from the comic book version, but it works best for the purposes of this story. Reviewers will be invited to play on Lex Luthor's exclusive and world-class golf course.**

They were, Lex Luthor had decided, woefully in need of a strategy meeting.

Despite forming the Secret Society of Super Villains, the aforementioned villains were failing to collaborate effectively. They were still being beaten by the so-called heroes on a far too regular basis, and it was affecting both Society and LexCorp profits. However, with so few opportunities for planning, and with the Society as internally fractured into separate factions as it was, the Society's members would need a more casual venue to hold a gathering than a straightforward meeting. Something outside the Hall of Doom would be nice, Lex thought, something away from all the architecturally enforced boundaries.

Sitting at his desk in the LexCorp headquarters in the Midtown district of Metropolis, Lex Luthor looked out the window at the glorious view of his city. Of course, his own goals went largely against those of Circe, not to mention the Joker. However, they were, as the expression went, the enemies of his enemies, and therefore they shared some common interests.

Perhaps a golf game would serve his purposes rather nicely, Lex thought. He had partaken in many such meetings before, all for LexCorp business, naturally, and had found them quite effective for getting what he wanted. It was always useful to take a competitor out of his or her comfort zone and into one where they, oddly enough, felt more at ease. A game of golf was an excellent way to ensure complete privacy and forced companionship for a good four or five hours. And Lex Luthor always used those hours to their fullest. With nothing to do but talk, agreements were often reached by the end of the third hole.

Besides, and Luthor could not help but smile at this, he was a rather accomplished golfer.

Of course, with so many Society members, they couldn't all play at the same time. But they could split into groups with different tee times, all play eighteen holes, and reconvene at the end of the day to come to a final arrangement.

Lex Luthor picked up his phone and dialed into the secure Society line. He had a number of phone calls to make before the day was out.

* * *

The course and club were, like almost everything else in Metropolis, owned by Lex Luthor. Arranging for a private engagement and acquiring the silence of certain managers had been easy enough. With both their jobs on the line and the new bonuses in their pockets, they had found it quite within reason to forget about certain events. And he had managed to find a number of caddies willing to accept certain future payoffs to ignore the obvious risks of serving well-known villains. Idiots. Of course he was going to dispose of them later. If they were too stupid to see that then they were unnecessary to the company anyway.

Lex Luthor, of course, had the first tee time. He would play with the other heads of the Society, Circe and the Joker.

Remarkably, both Circe and the Joker showed up on time. Circe, per usual, did not so much wear clothing as she did cover what was necessary and allow the rest of her figure to show. She was, Luthor was pleased to see, in proper dress code for the club. Her cape had been fashioned with a collar, and her thigh-high heals had been equipped with proper golf-shoe soles. Lex Luthor smiled and reached out for her hand. "Ah, Circe, you are looking as radiant as always." Circe, purring, allowed Lex Luthor to kiss her hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Luthor. I am sure that this meeting can prove productive." Lex Luthor smiled. Circe, despite her arrogance, had always been fairly rational. As for the Joker…

"Why hello, Lexy! Hope you don't mind I brought my own caddy with me." He motioned to Harley Quinn, who stood grinning beside him, carrying the Joker's golf clubs. She waved and giggled, "I hope you don't mind me coming along to support my Puddin'!"

Lex Luthor forced a smile. "Not at all," he said, dismissing the caddy he had assigned for the Joker. "Ms. Quinn is more than welcome to join us." Lex Luthor was no stranger to terrible golf outfits, but the Joker had set a new standard. In green and purple plaid knickers, oversized purple golf shoes, green striped socks, purple polo shirt, and green golf cap, the Joker was in one of the most horrendous outfits Lex Luthor had ever seen. And as for Ms. Quinn…well, Lex Luthor had not been aware that it was possible to make a golf skirt out of red and black harlequin pastels, but it was an image he knew he would most certainly like to forget.

It was a shame, really, what had happened to Ms. Quinn. Before meeting the Joker Dr. Harley Quinzel had been a rather accomplished psychiatrist in her own right, and could perhaps have provided Luthor with some useful insights into the Metahuman and Kryptonian psyche. But, that was in the past. Lex Luthor now had such individuals as Dr. Psycho to provide him with that information.

Naturally, Lex teed off first. Selecting his club, he opened the game with a beautiful shot that landed perfectly about two-thirds down the fairway. Luthor smiled. An excellent way to start a game.

Circe's turn was next. "Servant," she purred, her voice like honey, "pray tell, what club do you think it would be best I use here?"

"Well, considering how long a hole this is, ordinarily I would suggest a driver," the caddy was confident, speaking as naturally with this goddess as he would with any other client. "But considering your strength," he continued, "I would suggest a three wood."

Circe smiled and accepted the club from the caddy. Her form was perfect, though, with her figure, it would be hard to notice if it weren't. She lifted the club, executed a perfect swing, and sent the ball flying, flying…directly into the woods to the right of the fairway.

"Ah, a little slice there," the caddy said, "don't worry, I'm sure we can find the ball."

"You," Circe's liquid voice had suddenly turned to ice. "You suggested that I use this club, did you not?" Lex Luthor stiffened. Circe's temper was as legendary as she was. "And you, in your incompetence, have now caused this failure to occur."

"I, I'm sorry, ma'am, I didn't know that—"

"Fool! You will call me your Goddess! Do you wish to anger me further?"

"No, no, of course not, um, Goddess, of course I don't want to make you angry." The caddy was starting to sweat through his polo shirt. Circe walked towards him, towering, "No matter, if you still wish to serve me, I'm sure I can find a place far more fitting." There was a flash of light, a scream that transformed midway through into a roar, and where the caddy had stood there was suddenly a boar-headed Beastiomorph. "There," Circe smirked, "a position far more fitting your abilities…and your intellect."

Lex Luthor sighed. He had seen equivalent behavior before, in golf outings for LexCorp business. Certain individuals could suddenly become very competitive when playing golf. They would throw clubs and swear when a shot did not work as they had planned. Circe had just saved him the cost of one caddy elimination, but the prospects of coming to any sort of agreement or arrangement with her diminished in proportion to every increase in Circe's anger. If she had already turned her caddy into a Beastiomorph, the prospects for the rest of the game could only diminish from here.

"Oh, come on now, Circe, don't be so uptight!" Joker skipped over to the tee and grinned. "We're just playing a friendly little game of golf, aren't we? And what are games without a little fun?" Joker pulled a green golf ball out of his pocket and set it on the tee. "Harley! Bring Daddy the driver!"

"Comin' right up, Mistah J!" Harley bounced over to the Joker and handed him the golf club. The Joker swung back, his movements big and exaggerated, and brought the head of the golf club smashing into the ball as hard as he could.

Lex Luthor could not help but raise his eyebrows. The Joker's shot was actually good. It was sailing through the air, perfectly straight, and farther even than Lex Luthor's had gone. It kept soaring through the sky, sailing farther and farther until it touched down ever so lightly on the green…

And promptly exploded.

"There!" Joker cackled. "Now that's what I call a hole in one!"

"An excellent shot, Joker, sir!" Lex Luthor looked over at his caddy. Apparently the misguided fool had decided that emphatically agreeing with these clients was the best way to avoid being transformed into some sort of giant beast. "You really think so?" The Joker giggled and walked up to the caddy. "Thanks, pal! You're a real sport!" Joker grabbed the caddy's hand to give him a vigorous handshake. There was a smell of burning flesh, a sound like a small thunderclap and a stifled scream, and the caddy's smoking body fell face-first into the grass. "Oops!" Joker chuckled. "Guess I set the voltage on this joy buzzer a little too high." He and Harley burst into a shared maniacal fit of laughter.

Lex Luthor closed his eyes for a moment. The loss of the caddy was nothing, but Luthor could not help but calculate in his mind the ever-increasing expenses of this little excursion.

Luthor let out an exasperated sigh. This was going to be a very long four hours indeed.

**Next Chapter: "Arctic and Green"**


	2. Arctic and Green

**Chapter 2! "Arctic and Green". Please read, review, and enjoy! **

"Caddy! Bring me the five iron."

He could have outpaced the Flash, the caddy running as fast as he could to bring the Penguin his umbrella-club. It had been a most unusual and deadly day. First, the Riddler had sent his caddy on a wild clue-directed chase straight to the water trap on the sixth hole, and directly into the waiting jaws of a very hungry, perpetually irate Killer Croc. "So that I won't have to be saddled with such an inferior intellect," the villain had explained. Poison Ivy's caddy had been devoured shortly thereafter by a fast-growing carnivorous conifer, and the caddy assigned to Mr. Freeze had been rendered into an ice sculpture after one highly ill-advised comment about the rapidly sinking temperature and patches of frost appearing on the fairway.

This left only the Penguin's caddy to take care of the group. One caddy: alone, alive, room temperature, and very afraid.

"Still," Ivy's voice was like wildflower nectar: slow, sweet, and intoxicating. "I don't understand why you have to plunge Gotham into a new ice age, Freeze. Just think of all the plants that will die if you do that."

"Ivy, you don't understand the cold, hard truth." Mr. Freeze's voice was sharp, metallic, and echoed slightly in his cryo-suit. "Using these deep freeze machines is the only way to free Nora from her icy tomb. Frost-bitten plants are the least of my concerns."

"Well, whatever agreement you two come to, just make sure that my cash lines are still open." The Penguin squeaked through his nose when he spoke. He waddled towards the tee. "And if you two would remain quiet for one moment so that I can concentrate, that would be capital." The Penguin swung his umbrella-club and teed off. For someone so rotund and short of stature, the caddy noted, the Penguin could hit the ball surprisingly far.

"Riddle me this," the Riddler jumped into the conversation, almost cackling with intellectual and egomaniacal glee, "a man goes to play golf wearing two pairs of pants. Why?"

"Hey, Riddler," Penguin cut in, "What is green, and black, and blue, and red all over?"

"Very simple. That riddle is a variation of one any five year-old knows. The answer is—"

"_You_, if you don't shut up."

"Humph! Simpleton."

The Riddler's turn was next. Dressed in his usual green suit and bowler, he strode casually and confidently up to the tee and set in place his emerald green golf ball on a matching long-stem tee. Even his golf clubs were green.

"You talk about cold, hard truths, Freeze," Ivy had begun her debate again in earnest, "but you seem to not understand the damage you will do to my babies if you achieve your goals in this way. I know that you're trying to bring your wife back to you, but I'm trying to protect my _children_."

"Ivy, your children are numerous, while there is only one Nora. It is no accident if I come across as cold to the plight of your offspring. They do not matter to me. Their fate is inconsequential. Only Nora matters."

"In case he gets a hole in one." The caddy spoke, and immediately regretted it when the four villains looked at him incredulously. "The answer to the Riddler's question," he quickly explained, feeling the sweat begin to seep through his white, LexCorp-issued polo shirt. Why did he have to accept Mr. Luthor's offer to work today? It was supposed to be his day off. He certainly was not being paid enough for this. "You asked why a man plays golf wearing two pairs of pants. The man wears two pairs of pants in case he gets a hole in one."

"Nicely done!" The Riddler laughed as he spoke. "Though that was a rather simple riddle, I am impressed that someone with such inferior intellect as yourself should be able to figure it out. Now, caddy, riddle me this: which club ought I to use for this hole?"

The caddy was about to answer when he heard Ivy's primrose voice turn to thorns. "You really do not care about my babies?" There was a low rumble as the grass beneath them began to shiver. "You really don't care whether or not you kill my children?" The rumble turned into a small earthquake as the nearby topiaries began to tear their roots from the ground, growing large and feral, alive and kicking with the fierce, raw energy of the green. Green monstrocities bared their thorny fangs as Mr. Freeze armed his cryo-suit's defenses. "Let's see what my babies have to say about that!"

Trying not to scream, the caddy made a solemn promise to himself. If he made it through this day alive, he would quit his job with LexCorp, move as far away from Metropolis as possible, and never so much as think the word "golf" again.

**Next Chapter: "Fare Play"**


	3. Fare Play

**Chapter 3: Fare Play**

**Chapter 3! Reviewers will be given a tour of Carmine Falcone's collection of priceless relics.**

_With the number of villains on the course, the probability of an explosion occurring at some point during my shot is increased to 65%, requiring a 58% increase in power in my swing to compensate for potential blast wave interference. Use of the driver combined with my own strength should allow me to hit the ball for the full distance of the fairway, and will give me a 95% probability of the ball landing on the green, with a 72% chance of achieving a hole in one._

Deathstroke the Terminator crouched, polishing his golf clubs. He thought about the money now in his accounts. Lex Luthor had provided him with a rather significant sum to attend this meeting, as much as his standard charge for taking out any prominent Metahuman, or a lesser member of any justice society, squad, or league.

The assassin looked around through his good left eye. The number of caddies in their group had been reduced by fifty percent in twelve-point-five-seven minutes. Deathstroke had arrived at the golf course ten minutes and thirty-seven seconds before the appointed tee time. He had dismissed his LexCorp caddy immediately upon his arrival, remarking to the terrified youth, "I was paid to play golf. Not to kill you…yet." It was somewhat unprofessional, but Deathstroke did love the mixture of relief and terror that had crossed the caddy's face. Carmine Falcone arrived shortly thereafter, stepping casually out of the back seat of his limousine. Deathstroke made note of the make and model, in case he was ever hired to take the mob boss out. A bomb placed under the frame would be too obvious, but a nerve gas canister and remote triggering system requiring twenty-four minutes to wire into the air conditioning unit could eliminate the crime lord in twenty-seven-point-eight seconds…Two-Face arrived precisely five minutes and thirty seconds before their tee-time, and, upon seeing his caddy, immediately flipped his coin. It landed unscarred side up. "You're in luck," the villain remarked, "The coin says you live…for now." Catwoman arrived at the golf course last, and glided towards her caddy. "Come with me," she purred to the startled and sweating LexCorp employee, "I have something to show you." Deathstroke began keeping time in his head, and had to admit he was impressed. It took Catwoman precisely one-hundred-eighteen seconds to lure the caddy behind the bathroom and emerge alone with a shiny vintage Rolex and overstuffed wallet. One quick glance behind the bathroom revealed the caddy's unconscious body, significantly poorer than at the start of this encounter.

Now, exactly fifty-eight minutes into the game, Deathstroke the Terminator calculated that the remaining two caddies would, without any interference on his part, survive at most forty-five-point-eight minutes longer, if they were lucky.

Carmine Falcone's caddy had sweat through his LexCorp-issued polo shirt thirty-five minutes ago. It seemed that this particular individual happened to owe Falcone's organization a rather large sum of money in gambling debts. Of all the rotten luck in the world, he had to get this job, this client…Deathstroke calculated the probability at one in five-hundred-seventy-two million. The caddy was doing his best to remain professional, if overly obsequious.

As for Two-Face's caddy, Deathstroke could see that they had made the same observations. Two-Face would flip his coin before every shot, and the result of the toss would determine his play. Unscarred side: Harvey Dent would sincerely thank the caddy for handing him the golf club, calmly set up and take a shot, and shake off with a smile the fact that his ball sliced to the right. Scarred side: Two-Face would snarl and snatch the club from his terrified caddy's hand, attack the ball with his swing, and stomp, curse, and threaten when his ball hooked to the left. Perhaps, Deathstroke thought, if the coin could somehow land exactly on its edge, Harvey Two-Face Dent could hit the ball straight.

"I'm bored." Catwoman purred and stretched. She continually clenched and unclenched her right hand, flexing her claws. "Now I remember why I usually rob golf courses instead of playing on them."

"Well," Two-Face interjected, "if you hadn't already gotten rid of your caddy, then maybe you would have something to play with now."

"Hmmm." Catwoman chose to ignore that comment. "Pity," she said, "Lex seems to have removed anything shiny." Catwoman stretched and glanced around. Deathstroke had noticed as well that anything portable of significant monetary value had been removed. When he had first arrived at the club he had noticed the dust voids and slight indentations of where expensive statues had obviously been.

"Well, I, for one, had been hoping to meet more privately with Mr. Luthor." Carmine Falcone spoke like a less observant version of Lex. "Arranging a partnership with him for certain…necessary supplies…would prove profitable to both our businesses."

"Absolutely, Mr. Falcone, sir!" Deathstroke rolled his eye. If only there was some sort of bounty in it, that caddy would have found himself impaled on the pointed end of Deathstroke's sword twenty-three minutes ago.

As Catwoman walked with her four-iron towards the tee, Deathstroke noticed Carmine Falcone's eye following her every move. It wasn't until after Catwoman took her shot that Falcone spoke. "It seems last night a priceless relic was stolen from my personal collection." He glared at the master thief. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"You mean that beautiful Bastet?" Catwoman shifted her weight without a sound. "Are you saying that you think I had something to do with it?"

"It's a priceless statue of a cat." Falcone made no effort to hide his contempt. "Who else do you think would have stolen it?"

"Beauty like that belongs with someone who can really appreciate it."

"Someone like you?"

"Did I say that?" Catwoman yawned and continued to flex her claws. "You really shouldn't jump to conclusions like that, Carmine. It could get you into all kinds of trouble."

Deathstroke stood and walked with purpose to the black tees. Underneath his mask, he smiled. These tees were intended only for the best. Only for professionals.

He took his driver and set up the shot. He spent one-hundred-fifty-six seconds making his final calculations, then he took his shot.

The group was silent as the ball soared. It travelled in a perfect parabola, uninterrupted, precise as a graph made by any supercomputer, and landed.

Deathstroke looked through his sniper-rifle scope and allowed himself a small chuckle.

Another hole in one.

Deathstroke the Terminator was most certainly a professional.

**Next Chapter: Fear and Loathing**


	4. Fear and Loathing

**A Valentine treat, from your friends in the Secret Society of Super Villains. Reviewers will receive a Valentine from the villain of their choice. **

_Experiment 4653: Exposing the professionals known as caddies to the fear gas induces a severe state of panic, evidencing a high prevalence of acute Microagrizoophobia in the test population._

Arranging a temporary leave from Arkham had been easy enough. A single spray of fear gas and the guards were incapacitated and delirious. Dr. Crane almost regretted leaving behind such valuable data on agateophobia, but he could not allow antisophophobia to hinder him. Today's Society get-together was important, after all. Even if it was only to play golf.

The Scarecrow looked around through the sewn-over slits in his burlap mask. It had been a good day for experiments. Using the fear gas on his own caddy had caused the man to immediately start convulsing, writhing on the ground and screaming about gophers. Sinestro had raised his eyebrows at that. It seemed he took the Scarecrow's actions as a challenge, because he immediately generated a hard-light construct of a rather large gopher, and delivered his own caddy, on a yellow fear-construct platter, to Dr. Crane's feet in a terrified heap.

The other two in their party, Bane and Killer Croc, had also come from Arkham. After devouring his own caddy at the second tee, Croc had handed his clubs to the caddy assigned to Bane, who now displayed a rather justified case of herpetophobia.

They were now playing the sixth hole. Bane was preparing to tee off. For the most part, the group was remarkably quiet. Sinestro had insisted on silence when he teed off, and his ability to create constructs to ensure silence had a way of enforcing the policy. It only seemed fair that the same rules apply to all in the group.

Bane was mid-swing when they heard the splash.

A confused and out-of-breath caddy spluttered and scrambled out of the water trap. The noise was enough to throw off Bane's swing, and the ball barely missed the flustered caddy's head.

"GRAAAHH!" Bane grabbed the club and smashed it over his knee, breaking it in half. Scarecrow sighed. Bane had been attempting to tee off with the putter. The other LexCorp-issued implements had met a similar fate on the previous holes. Sinestro had commented to Scarecrow that while some golfers measured a game in balls lost, Bane could have measured it in clubs broken.

"Looks like you lose this round, Bane!" Killer Croc cackled and snarled. "Suppertime!" for an individual who looked, for all intents and purposes, to be an ambulatory alligator, Killer Croc could move surprisingly quickly. Especially when he got into the water. The caddy, drenched in water and sweat, began screaming. "No, please! I'm just looking for the Riddler's ball!" Unsurprisingly, this bit of information did not matter to Croc, who promptly chomped down on the poor man's arm. The caddy's screams filled the air as Bane seethed and Scarecrow and Sinestro watched with interest.

"Fascinating examples of hydrophobia and herpetophobia, don't you think?"

"Hmm. This is providing quite a nice bit of charge to my ring."

Bane turned to his caddy and shouted. "You! Get me new clubs! Now!"

"But, but," the caddy trembled under the giant's masked glare, "but Mister Luther says we have to add an additional charge for every club we replace. We're on the sixth hole and it would take me quite a while to get back to the clubhouse, and you broke the cart on the third tee, and—"

"YOU DIE! NOW!" The caddy screamed as he was lifted into the air by Bane. There was a loud, delightful crack as the man's spine broke over the wrestler's knee.

"Bane! You idiot!" Blood flowed from Killer Croc's mouth as he yelled. "Now we don't have anyone to carry our clubs!"

"Carry them yourself, you pathetic weakling!"

"That's it! It's payback time!"

Sinestro and Scarecrow watched with interest as Bane and Killer Croc began to fight, leaving the caddies' corpses strewn across the fairway. Their blows shook the earth below them as they punched and bit, and they had soon destroyed the tee marker, the ball cleaner, and the bench.

Sinestro turned to the Scarecrow. "You live with the both of them at Arkham, correct? You don't suppose they'll stop anytime soon, do you?"

Scarecrow looked at his fellow villain. "No," he shook his head, "and their fight is entirely useless to my research. Neither of them fears each other in the least."

"Hmm." Sinestro looked towards the fairway. "Well, you and I have already teed off, so would you perhaps like to finish this game?"

"An intriguing idea. However, we do not have any more caddies."

"Why would we need caddies?" Sinestro thrust his fist towards their golf clubs, and Scarecrow watched as they were quickly encased in a floating construct.

Dr. Crane looked at Sinestro and smiled. "You know, I do believe this day could prove very productive. There is much I could learn from your…experience."

Sinestro offered a thin smile in return. "And I too could gain some information from your…experiments."

And, chatting casually with each other, the masters of fear walked down the fairway, leaving Bane and Killer Croc to try to kill each other in peace.

**Next Chapter: "Great Minds..."**


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